


Together We Stand

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Fellowship of the Ring, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{Approx 1 year after the War of the Ring}...</p><p>It was a great misfortune that caused Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas to be delayed on their journey to Hobbiton; perhaps some kind of evil fate previously planned and premeditated. However, they push on, belated, hindered, though not without hope...</p><p>Who would have thought that a simple journey could have turned out so difficult, for it seems that getting there is only to be the beginning of their troubles...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together We Stand

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
  
AUTHORS NOTE: Though this is only the first chapter, I'm hoping to get pretty much straight into the basic plot soon  
  


 

 

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AUTHORS NOTE:

**This chapter is a REVISED version of my previous one, and due to the previous quality of my first few chapters in comparison to my most recent ones, I am working over, AT THE VERY LEAST, the first FOUR chapters. It will be for the better, I assure you. Let me know if you have any suggestions etc, regarding my quality of work, or my paragraphing and such.**

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Together We Stand, by **_Â§kaara._**

Disclaimer: Not under any circumstances do or will I ever own Middle-earth, or any of it's creations...dammnit! But, however, this story does take part in this universe, and as I am only borrowing the charactersâ€¦I guess I will have to return them relatively unharmedâ€¦I'll just have to let them heal first ^v^. This story, as annoying as the writing and the cliff-hangers may be, is written for readers enjoyment, though you may not recognise that at times.

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Chapter One: _Wood, Wood, Where For Art Thou, Dry Wood? â€¦_ (REVISED)

  
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From a prophecy of darkness and flames they rose once again, screeching and swaying, their foul bodies wavering and gaining strength as they weaved like nine drunkards; like the licking pools of flame from which they came. Great ripples of brazen orange crept viscously at armoured feet, and their long black cloaks flowed inelegantly in some morbid dance behind them as they crawled to the One before them.   
  
Fortunately out of sight, the Nine NazgÃ»l and their shadowed countenance concealed a naturally gruesome expression, whilst their ecstasy at the new-found power that enveloped them, flowed, weaved, and beaded off them in sickening dark black waves. A light borne of shadow.

Hissing, they bowed languidly as their master brought forth an array of flaming, foul weapons; one each to destroy them.   
  
As it rose from it's brazen, black throne the ruler felt nothing but derisiveness at the creatures that had failed him before.   
  
"Lasssst chanssse," it his as it handed the nine flaming torches to each hideous Wraith, while promising power and sating their wanton greed with it's own.

He screeched a would be snarl - if he had had a mouth - and only one task was propelled into their one-track, evil soulsâ€¦

Almost silently, it hissed in it's disgusting tongue the deciding words: "Fellow...shipâ€¦", as the Nine corrupted kings rode off into the gloom.

*****

The hidden sun had finally begun its dragging descent toward the western Misty Mountains. And as the dark cloud cover finally broke into torrential rain, the band of three worn travellers cast various hostile glances upwards, more than a little frustrated. Light drizzle was one thing, pelting rain was indeed another.

Aragorn inwardly sighed. Rain was the last thing they needed to happen on their journey to Hobbiton. This trip was intended to be a reunion of sorts, though some things had gone amiss already, and in order to make their destination of Hobbiton in time, the small group would be pushing themselves hard. During the night, two days west of Mirkwood, a group of bandits had attacked their camp and stolen necessary possessions. Needless to say or even explain, Gimli had carelessly fallen asleep on watch. And imparting on an act born of quick reflex, fast even for an elf, Legolas had managed to chase the fools down, and punish them. Elessar would have laughed at the timing of it all, had it not happened to him. Did they not know whose camp they had been sacking?

Frowning, the ranger fingered what was left of his pack, sighing with more annoyance than he truly felt at the broken strap of his pack. It was pointless to complain now, he realised. The damage had already been done, as it seemed the group had only been seeking to vandalise the camp, and not steal from it. In this random act and somewhat pointless act, almost one weekâ€™s valuable food had been stolen, and Legolas' pack had been completely ruined in the flight across the fields. Not to mention the fact that the food, ruined enough from being scattered across the fields by the thieves, had also been spoiled by untimely rain.

Looking to his companions, he saw the frown on Gimli's face had not lessened in their travels, and even now was growing deeper. Aragorn heard the stout dwarf curse as he turned his head heavenward. It seemed, as well as food, Gimliâ€™s battle axe had been severely damaged in the fray. Should they need his skills in battle, another weapon would be required for the job - a point that had been emphasised many times to the culprits, when the small being had caught up to his elven friend.

Luckily, Aragorn thought, no occasion that required the use of Gimli's weapon had come along, and for that Aragorn was grateful. The stocky dwarf was handy in a conflict, and if Gimli were to fall ill or wounded to insufficient weaponry, he was sure the bearded dwarf would never cease to hear the end of it from Legolas, for more reason than one.

Little time seemed to pass before the weather again increased its density, and the three beings found that their moods remained sour. Another vile oath was muttered as the rain seemed to thicken, and deafening thunderclaps boomed from overhead. The ranger turned to Gimli. The dwarf in question, usually composed and dutiful in the darkness of his own caves, was doing his best not to resemble a drowned rat. His fiery beard had decreased in volume to almost half of its usual countenance, and was looking darker now due to the heavy clumps of water which were running off the matted surface, like water off a duck's back. His clothing, even his thick cloak, clung to the stocky frame. His hood, it seemed, was little use in such weather, and though Aragorn had heard Legolas offering his own, Gimli's dwarven pride forced him to decline the proposal. 

Catching the dark look on Gimli's face, and the frustrated, almost bored look on the Elf's, the Ranger sighed and turned his head to the land around him. The grass, with the adept help of the rain and growing wind, was not standing as vainly as it usually would, but instead keeled, keeping close to the ground as if, it too, was struggling to get away from the dire weather. The sky, darkening due to the oncoming evening as well as the storm, indicated no patch light blue, but instead the grey-black clouds that rolled continuously for as far as the eye could see. Even beyond the horizon, from whence the storm originated, the sky blurred together in a confusion of darker shades of blue and grey. Frowning, he realised they were not going to make it much further on this eve.

"Legolas?" Noticing the elf now stood by his side, he continued, "Can you see the sky beyond those trees?"

The Elf nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, I can. But the sky is dark, and not only from night. This storm spreads far, and will not break until well after nightfall." Knowing the look of resignation on the Man's face when he saw it, Legolas raised a delicate brow in question, his piercing blue eyes speaking of what he did not. "We are setting up camp?"

  


  


Aragorn nodded briefly, pulling strands of his unruly ebony hair from his face in order to see. In seconds, the rain-slicked strands fell back into their usual place. He sighed. "Soon," the Ranger replied. "Our supplies are short, and we cannot afford to stay. But I fear we must, if this weather persists on frustrating us. A little farther, perhaps, and then we will stop. If I am right, there is a passable ford just past those trees. There, there may be some shelter."

Legolas was the first to speak. "This downpour will have caused the river levels to rise. If we are lucky, tomorrow the ford will be passable. If not, we will have to backtrack, thoughâ€¦" the prince looked around, frowning as he took in his companions soaked and quite miserable expressions. "In any case, the shelter would be good, even if we cannot pass so easily, we will at least be warm."

Gimli nodded in recognition of the elf's words. "Good," spoke the dwarf gruffly, though his tone showed his pleasure at this development, far more so than his bedraggled appearance. "A warm fire," he sighed. A slow grin spread across his face, and Aragorn found himself smiling also at the thought. The two turned to go, suddenly heartened. 

The Elf paused before following, catching up with lengthy but light strides. Legolas was not so sure. For a fire required dry firewood; of which they were sorely lacking since their scuffle the days before. It mattered not at the moment, though. What was done, was done. There was little point in enlightening his friends in that little fact. It was something they'd soon learn for themselves, had they not already thought of it.

*****

It was no more than an hour until the group came to reach one of the locations that Aragorn had mentioned.

It was a reasonably sheltered grove, the trio discovered, and it was reasonable walking distance to the ford. The rain, having the appearance of letting up, pleased them, though the members of the Fellowship were under little delusions. The shelter of the trees sheltered them from the majority of the rain, and a little of the wind - though it still howled through the trees, wishing them little rest.

Looking around, Legolas deemed the camp area serviceable, if not a little run down. Rain had seeped through a few branches, though the majority of the land around was dry, and the soft leaves - once exposed to the warmth of a decent fire - would prove to make good bedding. This at least was a comfort.

Setting their packs down, Gimli and Aragorn rubbed stiff shoulders and laid out their miscellaneous gear, while Legolas followed suit, but for the latter. Noticing the relieved expressions on his friends faces, the elf smiled - but not for long. If they were to be fully happy, warm, healthy and content, they needed a fire. He realised the two had undoubtedly spent nights in the cold rain with no chance or means of obtaining a fire, and had survived, albeit miserably. Aragorn, was of course a Ranger, and no soft touch, and the same for Gimli. But then - during the War of the Ring - such efforts had been necessary to conceal themselves from their deadly enemies. Now, however, such things were not needed, and warmth would be welcomed. Even by himself.

  


Gimli frowned, sudden realisation dawning on his broad features. "Oh, Strider?" he called, mockingly. With his mood soured from the delayed and deprived warmth his body so desperately needed, Gimli couldn't help but snap irritably at the Ranger, though he didn't entirely mean it. The shelter of the trees was fine, but the fire he had been yearning for over the past hour was hopeless without dry wood; good tinder and flint. The earlier, had been sacked by those who had tried to destroy their camps. "We need wood." His tone was reprimanding and caustic, again, and he winced at the chagrined look Aragorn threw him. It was not the Ranger's fault that they were stuck, but by Durin's beard, this weather, and the circumstance was getting him angry. If it was not one thing, then in was the next.

"Do not speak such to me, Gimli! I do not control the weather, or our fates." Tired, and more than a little irate himself, the King of Gondor felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he rummaged through his bag for food to sustain them all. "If you want wood, then go and gather some. I am busy. I wish you luck, you are sorely going to need it."

"Fine then." the grizzly dwarf muttered, seeing nothing else to do; at least moving around would keep him relatively warm. Squaring his shoulders, he resettled his useless and saturated cloak, and readied himself to go. Gathering his stumped axe, the dwarf bit back a curse as he realised how futile this would probably prove to be, especially with his obsolete axe; there was barely a handle to make a swing with. 

Before he could so much as turn toward the outlying forest beyond, a light arm on his shoulder stopped him before he even began. Turning to face who could surely only be the fair Elf, Gimli looked up without surprise to see he was correct.

"I shall go, my friend," said Legolas quietly, looking as for all the world like he cared nothing about the weather - as if it were another warm spring day. "I have been to this forest many times more, than you. I will return in no time," Legolas smiled, and patted Gimli on the shoulder again.

Taking the dwarf's sack from his hands, the elven prince waved a quick farewell, before flitting off into the forest before them. His green cloaked figure was gone in an instant, the darkness of the impending night aiding him in acknowledgement.

Seeing his friend leave, Gimli moved toward the centre of the encampment while muttering an unintelligible curse regarding weatherproof elves. Shaking water out of his beard, the Dwarf imagined with dire sentiment where the fire would usually be burning with brilliant flame. The thought brought annoyance and seemingly did not quell his endless feeling of cold. So, in more than a little chagrin and annoyance, Gimli turned to Aragorn, ashamedly forming an apology for the Ranger he had so unwittedly snapped at the moment before.

*****

Legolas ran lightly through the path the trees made for him, bending their branches willingly to aid one such as himself. With elven foresight, the trees whispered to him as they were prone to do with his kindred, and he began to descend to the grounds; darting down in what seemed like one fluid movement. As the ground raced on beneath him, coming steadily closer in his deliberation, the sight of the ford came closer, and as the trees hurried him closer, he realised in order to obtain dry wood, he was going to have to cross it.

In a matter of seconds, the prince was on the ground, and observing possible means of crossing. 

There was little tree cover before and after the roughly nine-foot-wide stream, part of the reason why he had taken to travelling on the ground. If he was to cross it, there was a strong probability that he'd have to find some other way of doing so. Though the ford, ravaged by the rain, was becoming clogged with branches and other matter of the like, causing it to become dammed up. The water had deepened significantly more than it should have over such a short time, Legolas thought, but he nonetheless continued to inspect the surrounding area for a means of departure, not wanting this small quest to prove futile. 

Like a chill kept at bay for too long, a sudden feeling of dread came over him, and he shook his head to clear it. Something was wrong, but he could not quite tell what. It felt, for all the world, like he was being watched. In seconds however, this thought was dispelled, and he shook the frosty feeling off, concentration on the dull task at hand.

Walking closer, Legolas realised that under the surface was an unnaturally steep bank, which had obviously been caused by the increasing speed and volume of water passing it by. By all assumptions it was impassable, as the water was much too deep - would almost be halfway up his torso - if he tried to make his way through it. Looking further upstream, the young prince realised that the congested river was doing exactly what he had hoped it would not. The water, forming more of a lake than a current where it was held up before the makeshift dam, was beginning to be too much for the tangled sticks and whatnot to bear. The cool liquid was seeping with increasing insistence through, and around the sides of the dam. 

This procession gave the Elf more than enough cause to worry, for if he were to cross through the river at the wrong moment, it had a possibility of washing him away in the current - that was if he wasnâ€™t careful. Which he was. Still, Legolas was more than unsure whether to cross, or look somewhere else.

Sighing, the Elf looked more than a little dubiously into the treetops, realising that maybe, his path there would be safer. If anything, he was more comfortable in the concealed foliage up so high; it reminded him of his home, though the songs of the trees were not quite so familiar, or so kind. The prince felt his spirits dampen, though he heeded the word of the trees just as well. There would be no way to cross the ford itself on this night, and it would be just as troublesome trying to cross by way of trees. But the least he could do was try.

Climbing as easily up into the coverage of the trees as he would walk normally on flat ground, Legolas was instantly at ease again as the trees - somewhat reluctantly - groaned, and shifted their branches slowly toward each other so he could cross the river. In a matter of seconds there was a passable branching area with an acceptable gap that he knew he could make in this weather, without having to trust purchase in foreign land and trees. Making his way to the branch that had just moved, he walked effortlessly and smoothly across the thick branching.

At the furthermost edge of the tree he was on, Legolas crouched, his hand finding purchase on the slippery wood and gripping it in case he should fall - which he doubted. He looked down and surveyed the area beneath his feet, watching with a chill neutral expression as ten feet below, the ford's level steadily rose beyond it's bank, not far from enveloping the entire area around it. He relaxed as the closest tree's branches inched ever-closer, and as it was now only about six feet away, rather than double that, Legolas stood, and realised that now would be the best time to leave. If he was away too much longer, his companions would start to worry even though they were undoubtedly sure he was safe.

Legolas took a step back to make the extra effort to make the jump safely. As he stepped forward ready to leap, however, a second chill came over him, and he frowned in hesitation. Deciding upon ignoring it he leapt in instinct, for there was little cover where he now stood, and the heavy coverage nearby would not only promise dry wood, but easier haven from danger. He had jumped too soon - or too late - he realised, as a familiar pang bit the still air, and surprisingly enough, a dark arrow landed in the branches before him. 

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'Still?' the Elf thought in a daze, as he tried to turn, mid leap. _'Since when did any sound cease? What is this?'_ He cursed his lack of attention and muttered a few choice oaths under his breath.

He had no time to contemplate such thoughts, however, as the sound of a second arrow heading his way whistled through the air. He twisted in bitter futility as he realised that unlike the first, this arrow's brother would indeed hit the mark. The feint which saved his life comforted him only mildly, as the piercing pain that accompanied the arrow bit sharply into his left shoulder, causing him to gasp at the sudden, unexpected agony.

All of this happened in under three seconds, and as the elven prince propelled himself through the air, the brunt force of the arrow caused him to twist even further in his plight. Blinking rapidly against the growing pain, Legolas reached forward, barely catching the large branch in his injured arm as it receded like a scorned child from the onslaught of the arrow. Too late for a second time that day, the fair-haired Elf felt his injured shoulder jar, and he felt his grip slip awkwardly, his fingers straining to keep their hold on the rough bark, his vision clouding with the pain.

In another matter of seconds, Legolas felt his grip slip entirely, and he plummeted to the chill water below, compelled into a haze of pain and fear. Two noises - none of which he liked - assaulted his ears with definite finality, and something akin to evil. One, a dark laugh unlike any had heard before, sounded sharply through the clearing as he fell, while the second boded to be a more immediate and possibly more dire problem. The ford, promising nothing but chill and rapid death, chose that exact moment to burst its bloated banks.

As he hit the water, Legolas realised that though the crisp water would not affect him immediately, it would slow down his movements along with his injured shoulder. As if the very thought of the still-embedded arrow brought it to his attention, he gasped as the pain radiated with fiery intensity up his arm. The sluggishly sleeping blood flowed ahead of him, trailing horizontally like smoke would off a fire with damp wood. Giving thought to the arrow, he realised that if he removed it before it could be tended, he could cause himself more harm than good.

Drifting faster, and more than he would like, Legolas tried to reach the bottom of the now raging river with his feet. It was then that he realised that he'd sorely underestimated what was previously the ford's depth. With no such luck, his long legs floundered in the water, barely able to keep him vertical as the quite different undercurrent set in. In seconds he was turned around - for though he could swim, his injured arm was quite useless, and trying to swim against the increasing current of the water was almost useless, as such.

Once or twice as he drifted down the seemingly endless river, he managed to reach a narrow part of the bank, though whenever he tried, it was too steep, and the soil was too loose to grasp. In each case, he found himself again drifting randomly along patches of the water.

Strangely, he noticed, after each effort he felt wearier and wearier - as if some unfamiliar force was seeping his energy from his tiring body and limbs. He realised a simple arrow should not do such, and in frustration, he looked again, and was shockedâ€¦

And though he had reason to be, it was exactly that most unfortunate moment, when he shouldn't have looked away, no matter the circumstance. As, while the torrentious current forced him further from his companions, another obstruction lay in his road. And, had he seen it earlier, the large spindly log lying partially across the river, just out of the chilly water, could have been useful in saving himself a great journey.

But it was not to be, and Legolas moved rapidly on, the back of his injured shoulder caught on an exposed stub of the nearby log. As pain more intense than the propelled shaft of the arrow had ever been tore through his useless side, and a bitter wave of nausea caused his stomach to roll, Legolas realised two things. One: his cause for weariness had been a Morgul blade - that of a Wraith or an Orc, which drained the life-force of those it hunted, until it served them. Regardless, it seemed too out of place here. Especially this far North. The second thing he realised, was that though he was adept in his knowledge of these woods, he still had not managed to find any wood, though he knew the way. Unbidden, his stray thoughts wonder to the shaft in his shoulder, which had snapped under the pressure of being slammed against the very solid stump.

A second wave of pain enveloped his entire being, and he was caught in the backwash of the side of the river, only to be slammed unmercifully back against the long; his shoulder screamed in agony. The Elf slumped, pale and shaken against the damp wood, the irony not lost on him. When a third wave of pain assaulted him, Legolas was no longer able to support his weakened body. And though he struggled futily, he was soon cloaked in blessed darkness; his eyes closed and his head fell back against the 'supporting' log as he, himself, slipped into the oblivion that came with painful unconsciousness.

  


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TBCâ€¦


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